Nothing You Would Take, Everything You Gave
by redisthenewblackington
Summary: When I first saw the end of e22, I immediately imagined that Lizzie was standing in the doorway, watching. That's my head canon until I'm proven wrong. This is how I'd love to see it all played out. It fulfills the prompt from the Lizzington shipper's Facebook group, in which Lizzie sees Red's scars. I do not own either The Blacklist or its magnetic characters.


After Lizzie walked away, Red could have left immediately. Perhaps he should have. Instead, he gave her until nightfall, and spent the interim staring out the window, seemingly catatonic, silently willing her to change her mind.

Red is a man of action, but his work was suddenly done. Nothing of great import could happen without her. He respected her decision. He had spent years mentally preparing himself for this outcome, and yet he languished just the same. An outsider might think he was being prideful by not begging for her help. They'd be wrong. She knew so little of the truth that she couldn't have possibly made an informed decision. Red felt like a fool.

Lizzie was harder than ever. Anyone could see that. Would she ever soften again? Perhaps, without him...

He kept time with a large, heavy hour glass. Its mahogany frame was intricately carved with swirling patterns that would have been at home in a Van Gough painting. Red's hope slipped further away with every fallen grain of sand. Each time it emptied, he up-ended it with a thud that echoed throughout the cavernous room.

The hour glass was an apt timepiece. He thought back to what he said the first time he offered to leave."You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear." Months later, she had disappeared. He let her.

Dembe sighed heavily in the door frame, worried sick over Red's mental and emotional state. He braced himself to tell his employer, his best friend, his brother, that the pilot had phoned. It was time to go.

Red had heard both Dembe's footsteps and his sigh. He spared Dembe from having to say the words aloud. Wordlessly, Red swept his forearm across the desk, knocking the hourglass to the floor. It shattered. Without acknowledging either the noise or the mess, he stood and exited the room, glass crunching and sand scattering underfoot.

Donning his fedora, Red stepped out into the garish, waning sunlight, and Dembe silently followed in tow. Every fiber of his body screamed in protest, but he pressed on. As his tired eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted a car approaching from a distance. Red didn't have to see her face to know that it was Lizzie. His heart thumping back to life, he continued to load up the car, popping the trunk to hide his face while he took a deep breath, tightly closing his eyes and biting his lip. None of that escaped Dembe, who openly smiled as the taxi came to a stop in front of them.

Schooling his expression, Red raised and turned his head as she exited the cab, her chin lifted a little higher than usual. They gazed at each other with bright eyes and tight lips as a silent dialogue passed between them. Red removed his fedora.

The simple act conveyed respect.

Gratitude.

Relief.

And that was all it took. Lizzie bashfully looked down at her feet. When her eyes returned to his, Red tilted his head, lips breaking into the smile that melted her remaining resolve. With it, her heart.

Not that she'd give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

Not that she'd admit it to herself, even.

Inside, they sat down on the staircase, closer than usual, touching from hips to ankles. The contact imbued a buzzing tension that each bravely battled to ignore. There, they tentatively laid out plans for Berlin, starting with finding Gina.

In her haste to reach Red before his departure, Lizzie hadn't considered eating. If asked, she'd have needed a moment to even recall her last meal. While Red waxed poetic on the wisdom of leaving Hudson in Aram's care for the indefinite future, Lizzie's stomach rumbled loudly enough to interrupt him. With a light chuckle, Red immediately stood and reached for Lizzie's hand to help her up. He lead her to the kitchen to investigate their meal options. Unfortunately, no one had lived in this safe house for over a month, and they could find only dried figs and Brazil nuts. Being on the run, it wasn't safe to go out for food, but they were too remote to have anything delivered.

When Red turned toward the door, Lizzie knew he intended to ask Dembe to go out, so she swiftly hooked her thumb into one of his belt loops and pulled, effectively keeping him in place. Red's breath hitched, and she growled out a firm "NO." She smiled to herself when it dawned on her that she had surprised him. With her thumb still locked on, she added, "I happen to love both figs and Brazil nuts."

"Well, then..." came his reply, and he paused, considering his words. He ground them out slowly. "At least accompany me to the wine cellar." She narrowed her eyes at him. He took a single step toward her and lowered his voice an octave. "I'm certain we can find an appropriate pairing." She let go. His lips pressed tightly together then, but his eyes were merrily alight.

Damn him, she thought. Damn his quest for constant control over every interaction with her. She acquiesced, just the same.

Down in the dimly-lit cellar, Lizzie couldn't help being overwhelmed by the selection. As they perused the bottles, Red, of course, took the opportunity to regale her with the history of both the estate and its eccentric owner. She already knew that it was a vineyard, having seen the overflowing vines from the kitchen window.

The owner believed that he was a brilliant oenophile and master bull-riding cowboy. It didn't matter that he was actually neither, because he had more than enough money to pretend with gusto. Several weeks ago, he took off to compete in a rodeo held in Arizona. Red hasn't heard from him since, and worried that perhaps his old friend had finally messed with the wrong bull. If he had been away for so long, then who was tending to the horses, cattle, and grapes?

For the umpteenth time that evening, Red seemed to read her mind. Behind the barn, he told her, lay an enormous tree house, the likes of which one could only dream. Several employees called it home.

"If it were unoccupied, I'd prefer to stay in the tree house," confessed Red. "This goes beyond novelty. It is, in fact, exquisite in its impressive accommodations. I'll have to show you someday. You'll love it."

There was more than a morsel of hope clinging to the word "someday".

Lizzie continued to browse the wine selection, despite knowing that Red would have the final say in which one they opened. She really didn't mind, anyway. Unlike the owner, she knew that Red was an actual oenophile.

Later on, each having consumed three generous glasses, Lizzie yawned. Red insisted that she drink some water, and then go to bed.

It didn't matter that it wasn't what she wanted. She was sober enough to know that she'd have to choose her battles. Bedtime just wasn't worth an argument. At least, it wasn't this time.

Sensing that she needed encouragement, Red took Lizzie's hand and lead her upstairs to her room. He then made a beeline for the closet and quickly returned with his arms full of blankets. "It's already chilly, but the temperature will likely drop further. These will keep you warm." He leaned in slowly and softly kissed her temple. "Sweet dreams, Lizzie. I'm so glad that you're here."

"Me too, Red. Goodnight."

Climbing into the enormous bed, Lizzie tightly closed her eyes, awaiting her often-elusive slumber.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Ugh.

She finally gave up hope and swung her legs over the side of the bed, easing her bare feet onto the cool hardwood floor. Perhaps Red was still awake. She wasn't sure which room was his, so she decided to start with the one that likely had the best view of the property. She found it easily. The door was ajar, and moonlight filtering through the trees cast dancing shadows across the floor. Red was standing there, lost in thought, facing away from her, and staring out the huge window that extended from floor to ceiling.

She stopped in the doorway, holding her breath, not sure how to announce her presence without startling him. He began removing his cuff links, and Lizzie pivoted to retreat, but curiosity and tentative desire caused her to pivot once more. It was a pointless and dizzying 360. She held her breath when his fingers started working on the buttons of his dress shirt.

...

She is still hard, Red thought, after showing her to her room and bidding her a good night. He wasn't out of the doghouse regarding Sam, but that was expected. He'd give her all the time she needed. Red felt enormously relieved when she returned, but the work lying ahead of them was daunting and dangerous. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he didn't try. Instead, he returned to the window, peering through the trees that seemed determined to obstruct his view of the sea of tangled vines.

He sighed heavily. As he began to unbutton his shirt, Red's mind wandered to one of several invariable fantasies about Lizzie.

It started with her tightly coiled in fury. Lizzie was so sexy, even in her rage. She stepped so closely into his personal space that he could feel the moisture of her breath on his cheeks. Her eyes were shining orbs of white hot rage. When she raised her arm to strike him, Red's own reached out to grab her hand before she could follow through. Before letting go, his other arm shot out and wrapped around her back, pulling her into a breath-crushing hug. He hung on tightly, and Lizzie struggled briefly. Slowly, he felt her muscles relax. She exhaled as the tension escaped from the inside out. He tilted his head and kissed the crook of her neck, eliciting a soft hum in response. He then swiftly lifted and carried her to the bed, and gently lowered her, coaxing her to lie down.

There, he slipped off her shoes and socks. He instructed her to raise her arms over her head, facilitating the easy removal of her shirt. He unbuttoned her trousers and slid them down her legs and off of her body. He brought his palm to rest on her lower belly, and with the other hand, combed his fingers through her hair. Finally, he lowered his head and softly introduced his lips to hers. Gradually, he deepened their kiss. It seemed to go on forever, neither realizing that they were holding their collective breaths. When he pulled away, both gasped, but the fury continued to rage in her eyes.

Red then rolled her onto her stomach and slid a pillow beneath her head. He kneeled beside her and began to softly glide his fingers up and down the length of her calves, sending shivers throughout her scantily-clad body. As Red slowly increased the pressure, he could feel her soften beneath his skilled hands. He traveled to her hamstrings and kneaded them, marveling at the softness of her skin. Suddenly, Red removed his hand and placed it on her back. He splayed his fingers, leaving each one in the spaces between her slightly protruding vertabrae. Lizzie turned her head towards him, willing that he kiss her again.

Red held her gaze, tightening his jaw, and the muscle beneath his left eye twitched. Softly, yet firmly he spoke. "Lizzie, I'm so sorry. I need you for so ma-." He abruptly stopped, his voice trailing, when he could see that her eyes now held only sadness.

...

Even in his fantasies, her forgiveness was paramount. He couldn't proceed without it.

He firmly pressed on the racing pulse of his right carotid artery. His fixation on it developed after the incident in which she fixated upon it-with a pen. It was the smallest of the scars that he bore for her, and certainly not the last.

...

Lizzie continued to hold her breath as Red slipped one shoulder free of his shirt. He then peeled away a bandage to inspect his newest gunshot wound. He was lost in thought and oblivious to her presence. Lizzie's eyes strained in the darkness as he removed his shirt completely. Something was off about his skin. Was that a tattoo? It looked like a topographic map. Perhaps it was just a patterned undershirt. No. Red wouldn't wear such a thing, would he?

Lizzie gave in to the urge to cross the threshold into his room, silently tiptoeing closer, and shortening the space between them.

Her stomach lurched when his flesh came into focus. It was badly scarred, as if it had been boiled and then flash-frozen in that state. The scars were varying shades of pink, white, and beige. It was mottled and traversed with lines in all directions. Even a few short feet away, his back still resembled a topographic map. She thought of all the places he had been, and the things he had done. His back was trying to tell her a story, but she couldn't understand it.

When she found herself subconsciously pressing her fingers into the scar on her own wrist, her eyes widened with sudden clarity. She clamped down on her bottom lip, drawing from it a sudden gush of blood. Trembling, she still held her breath.

He must have been in a very deep state of reverie, because she could see the whites of her eyes in her reflection in the window, and yet he remained unaware of her presence.

She lost control then, sucking in a noisy breath and lunging forward. She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to wrap her arms around him, mustering the strength of every fiber in her body to hold on when he tried to pull back. Lizzie could feel the reason why, the physical evidence of his distraction from her presence, and damn it all, she did not care. She stood on her tiptoes, hooking her chin over his shoulder, and clung to him for dear life. She felt the blood from her lip drip down to her fingers, and she didn't care about that, either.

But both of these things, which she tried to ignore, were unimpeachable proof of one thing: They were still alive. Both were alive, and without him, she wouldn't be.

A memory assaulted her then. After he saved her from The Stewmaker, she called him a monster and asked how he lived with himself. He didn't even try to argue with her. "By saving your life," was all he said. She didn't know that he had saved her before, so long ago. Earlier, she had even defended The Stewmaker, saying he couldn't help it. Red didn't have to save her, and yet he did it anyhow, and rather than thank him or defend him, she hugged Donald and called Red a monster.

Red was no monster. She was.

When he finally lifted his arms to wrap them around her, Lizzie unhooked her chin, sank down to her heels, and began to cry into his bare chest. She pressed her ear to his heart, trying to soothe herself with its steady beat.

Red remained silent, but peppered her head with kisses. Lizzie loosened her grip and blindly explored his scars with just her fingertips, which he patiently allowed. Minutes ticked by.

Red felt hypnotized. How ironic, he thought, that reality should so perfectly mirror his fantasy. It was she who held him in a crushing embrace. It was he who melted under her careful and intimate touch.

She pulled back to gaze into his glassy eyes, and took both of his hands. "Thank you," she firmly spoke, and then captured his lips with her own. When she broke away, breathless, she added, "for always having me."

Without hesitation, he replied,

"I always will, Lizzie. Of that, you can be certain. "


End file.
